


Times Are Changing

by Jennyandthejets



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Background Characters Having A Rough Time, Freddie has spoken, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 02:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennyandthejets/pseuds/Jennyandthejets
Summary: Babs, Mitch, and even Gauthier explain it plainly enough, Fred’s name and position rolling off the tongue with finite precision. But it is the man in question who does it best: “I don’t think we’re tired, I think it’s a lack of effort.”





	Times Are Changing

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, last night Leafs' game was pretty brutal for me. I stayed up well past my bedtime to catch Fred's post-game interview and then couldn't shake the feeling that I just needed to write something to contend with the emotions. I was writing it at two am on my phone's notepad no less and it's been less twenty-four hours since conception but I didn't want to linger on this, particularly given that my local ECHL team won tonight and we were at the game. I want to focus on my joy for a team that has been seriously working through some struggles and had some beautiful plays this evening.
> 
> Not much purpose to this piece and definitely NOT what I wanted my first piece of Fred/Connor on here to be but maybe they'll win tomorrow and Connor will score and I'll write up a beautiful second chapter where Connor thanks Freddie for everything he's worth. In the bedroom. Unlikely but here's to a good game against the Senators!

The tension carried off the ice and into the darkest dredges of the guest locker room where the Leafs shed their gear to the soundtrack of defeat: overwhelming silence and reporters of broken record proportions unable to do anything but repeat one after the other ‘what went wrong?’

Babs, Mitch, and even Gauthier explain it plainly enough, Fred’s name and position rolling off the tongue with finite precision. But it is the man in question who does it best: “I don’t think we’re tired, I think it’s a lack of effort.” In a prime position for the rest of the room to hear him, Fred had essentially announced to the room that he was done being the saving grace of the team. That this wasn’t his ship to go down with. The entire room might have agreed but the silence stretched on.

Forty-eight hours later would find them walking the routine again. Two sleeps. One and a half practices. Four, maybe five, encouraging pre-game interviews before they’d be knocking on the Senators’ door, praying for better results. Four losses in a row was nothing short of embarrassing. It wasn’t worth it to go to the playoffs just to be swept first round.

Connor hesitated before taking the seat next to Freddie on the bus that evening, the team on their way to the airport to catch a plane before they poured themselves into bed for what would likely be limited sleep before a guaranteed grueling practice. Nothing short of what they deserved.

While true, Connor had scored two games in a row, his performance was ultimately lackluster. Call it luck rather than success. A goal meant nothing without companions, without a team backing it up with numbers. Was Freddy not a shining example? The man before him was a godsend, a radical produced from heaven for the pure pleasure of the human world to watch him play a stunning game of hockey. Connor would prefer to ride with the luggage than dampen the flame that was the Leafs goalie. He almost walked on. Had prepared to after replenishing his bag.

Movement from Freddie caught him just as he finished grabbing a water bottle from the case in seat adjacent to their usual. The man had turned to him, was eying Connor like he did a puck speeding down the ice before him. And, damn, if Freddie didn’t pull out one more save that night. Right into the glove even as Connor reluctantly toppled into the seat next to him.

Fred spoke first. A surprise considering his lack of speech outside of media that evening. No one had tried to get a word out of him, had heard in no uncertain terms what he had to say. “Good goal.” It was a formality, not a compliment. Freddie was praising Connor as a placeholder for the rest of the team who had little interest in goals beyond those that had spelled out disaster. Again, luck.

Ever the polite, Canadian boy whose mother had raised him well, Connor nodded his head in return. “Thanks.” His voice, also having gone unused much of the evening, sounded strange to his own ears. Though he’d been aware of sleep tugging at the back of his mind, the exhaustion present surprised him. Intermingled was sadness that came only with spectacular fuck ups. At a game one was supposed to be good at no less. Connor turned his face to his lap.

The conversation lulled immediately after. Connor couldn’t pinpoint what exactly he should say and Freddie seemed disinterested in striving for conversation of any kind. Normally, having such little space between them eased Connor into a sense of calm even after rough nights. Tonight, it felt like electricity crackled between them in the worst way possible. He imagined being burn the second he got too close or spoke out of turn.

Connor took the bus ride to clear his mind and get a good look at the other guys. More than one pair angled in Freddie’s direction, evidently his words having hit home. He wanted to feel offended for his goalie when he searched their expressions and found anger and resentment staring back. It was easy to scapegoat the guy who spoke the truth. Connor made an attempt to tamper his own emotions. The attitude of the night would die with the season’s progression and they would, hopefully, move on to brighter dispositions. Honestly, most of them were probably angry at themselves. Freddie had just gotten caught in the crosshairs of the emotional turmoil.

Auston was talking quietly to Mitch, leaning into his friend who’d seemed on the verge of tears in his interview and was now inconsolable. He’d put up a poor performance. Had been putting up poor performances. Happened to the best of them but that thought alone never made it easier. Auston was a good friend to give Mitch his attention considering that he had his own demons to deal with.

There was Rielly in the front who had fought his way back into the game despite injury. He awaited proper inspection in Ottawa to ascertain if he would even be available for play in the redemption game. He was chewing on the string of his hoodie by the looks of it, though Connor could only make guesses from behind. His head was outlined in an eerie glow, the light of his phone as he tried to think about anything but being taken out of the game. Connor didn’t want to imagine that possibility either and moved on.

Gardiner sat alone, blank eyes trained out a window revealing a landscape too dark to see anything. Too much blame on his shoulders for what was not a one man game. In his normal frame of mind, Connor would have offered consolation in some way, shape, or form. That night, he had barely been able to summon the will to depart the comforting confines of his cubby and head for the team bus. He was of no use with a broken spirit.

The team littered the bus in various groups and singles, all the players in various states of distress. Some pinpointed their brothers’ mistakes for the loss, others called out the refs for calls they’d consistently missed or neglected, but most let the toxic feeling reel through them as they blamed themselves for every breakdown and missed opportunity. Their was no room for talk or card games or even sleep amongst the misery. A cold chill passed through him, making each breath more difficult than the last. Connor forced himself to return his eyes to his lap, surprised to find two clenched fists there now. He relaxed but ultimately kept his hands balled.

Fred spoke up when the bus pulled into its space and the lights flickered on, eliciting subconscious groans. The plane was a safer place, a better escape. They could all sleep without qualm. Filing out one by one in a sterile manner, Connor had followed suit when the line reached his bank of seats. He stood, retrieving his bag from the floor. Freddie had spoken then, when the two were most tucked into each other’s space, the goalie having bent over to retrieve his own belongings.

“We have to do something.”

With anyone else, Connor might have snapped. It was obvious that they had to do something. They had to play a better game of hockey for Pete’s sake. Even bandwagon fans on day one of initiation could see that. This wasn’t the moment to point out the obvious.

But this was Freddie. The younger redhead turned his face up to see that the fire and anger in his goalie’s eyes had evaporated. Left in its wake was pity. It crashed over Connor, eliciting a physical response in the form of a soft gasp as the air departed his lungs.

Not oft a fan of words, the goalie didn’t throw mindless phrases into the universe without proper purpose behind them. His interview had been succinct and to the point, each word finding its point.

These words now were said with the same sense of purpose behind them. Connor looked on at a man that desperately loved what he was doing, a man that adored his team even if he didn’t know how much he wanted to be a Maple Leaf until he actually was one. The poorly timed phrase might have wounded another player and even Connor had anyone else spoken it at the height of his grief, but Fred knew better. Fred knew Connor.

This was a man that was giving it his all in the game every night and had to look on knowing that it still wasn’t enough. Anger prickled at his skin and left him unable to hold his tongue when it came to calling out the root of the issue. It had all bubbled up leaving Freddie no choice but to spit it out, even if it meant burning the team in the process. They deserved the sting.

Still, that wave of emotion had to culminate in something. Had to land somewhere. It had chipped away at Fred’s exterior, leaving him raw & open with the defeated look in his eyes that Connor could spot immediately as they locked eyes now. He was great, sure. But an L insisted that great wasn’t good enough. Fred shouldered blame where he deserved none. It made Connor’s heart ache.

Allowing his bag to slip to the floor, Connor decided that being the first to disrupt the lineup was in order as he waved on the guys behind them. He reached over and gripped Fred’s wrist where the skin was bared past the edge of a cuff, waiting for the burn of the electricity that had been lying in wait between them. It scared him to realize that the man next to him had burnt out. As a team, they had done this to him. It was wrong and somehow nauseating.

Connor crowded into Freddie’s space, lacking much leverage beyond the fact that his goalie was stuck in the inner seat until Connor moved along. Otherwise, he’d be climbing, a move that seemed unrefined despite his acrobatics during game play. The winger allowed his free hand to settle atop his goalie's knee, fingers digging into skin. Fred met his gaze.

“We will. For you.” It was a weak promise even to his own ears but Connor didn't know what to say otherwise. Four games in a row they had hung Freddie out to dry. They had promised him their best and then fallen to pieces when it most mattered. Goal advantages meant nothing if they couldn't retain. The team had made promises time and time again. Promises that they had never bothered to live up to. They were approaching the point of no return. If the team didn't want to work for Fred, then he wouldn't work for them. They couldn't have that. Connor imagined a Leafs without Freddie's support. The pang in his chest was nothing to sneer at. He had half a mind to think he'd fall apart with the goalie behind him. And not just on the ice.

Lost to his own devices, Connor registered with a gasp as a hand came down atop his. Fingers pried into fabric below Fred's steady grip, the hand of a professional. The winger relaxed his grip, glancing at his goalie with apology in his eyes. A certain fondness had chased away the sadness, though the exhaustion lingered. Those were eyes to get lost in. For the first time all night, the corner of Connor's mouth twitched. A smile for Fred's benefit only. He returned the gesture, his own grin practically non-existent but there all the same in the way that only Connor could pick out. It was a look that belonged to him alone.

Perhaps they would have stayed like that forever, poor hockey playing abandoned in favor of looking into each other's eyes and remembering what it felt like to be right side up. It was Kadri who brushed by then, muttering a gruff, “Let's go,” effectively bringing the moment to its end. The two collected their belongings, filing off the bus alongside the rest of the team to board the plane to Ottawa and, with any luck, forward.

**Author's Note:**

> I do have a cute Fred/Connor piece in the works that doesn't rely so much on real world dynamics. Just trying to craft an ending. Really love these two guys as players and people so hopefully I do them some semblance of justice. Thanks for reading!


End file.
